


Loud Places

by yikesola



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, Pain Kink, Trope Subversion, non-youtuber au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 15:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18803392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yikesola/pseuds/yikesola
Summary: Bryony had abandoned Phil for a pretty girl at the bar, which meant he was now sitting alone in what used to be their booth. It’d be easy to be annoyed. And he is, kinda. But more than anything, Phil figures he’s just… lonely. This crowded club is packed with people, and he feels so fucking lonely sitting in his booth and sipping his cocktail.An au fic about beats per minute and doing things.





	Loud Places

**Author's Note:**

> Written for PFF Second Chances: Trope Subversion. Betaed by the very kind [quercussp](http://quercussp.tumblr.com/).  
> Trope Subversion: Pain Kink

Phil, despite all the lies he’d told well over a decade ago at the start of uni about being a club-going maniac, hated really almost everything about clubs. How he had let Bryony convince him to go out to one tonight is still shocking to him. That she’d play for sympathy by reminding him that she’s newly single for the first time in ages. That she’d dogged him for how long it’s been since he himself got with anyone. That she’d promised not to ditch him even though the first pretty girl with a nose ring and an offer to buy her a glass of wine made Bryony laugh, and it all meant he was now sitting alone in what used to be their booth. 

But it’s arguably just his booth now. Has been for about twenty minutes. 

It’d be easy to be annoyed. And he is, kinda. But more than anything, Phil figures he’s just… lonely. This crowded club is packed with people, and he feels so fucking lonely sitting in his booth and sipping his cocktail. 

He could get up and walk to the bar to get another drink; his sugary cocktail that might’ve had a bit too much vodka in it is nearly empty. He could get up and walk to the bathroom to wash his hands; he’d stupidly touched a chewed piece of gum under the table when they first sat down and he’s been itching to wash his hands ever since. Or hell, he could get up and walk to the dance floor and let his limbs flail on the off chance that they’ll line up to the beat thrumming through the building. 

All of these things require an energy he simply doesn’t have. It’d taken enough out of him to simply come out to the club at all. 

He just doesn’t _do_ things; he’s not the sort of person that does things and not the sort of person that things happen to. He just wakes day after day once the sun is up, lies back down when it has set, and repeats. That’s his life. 

Or, three cocktails in and the music so loud he can’t hear anything but the pulse which he fears must somehow be matching his heartbeat, he’s able to convince himself right now that’s what his life is. He doesn’t think that was always his life. He supposes he must’ve done something, at some point. Just… statistically speaking. 

He spots Bryony trying to catch his eye from where she’s sitting at the bar, and she lifts her shoulder in some kind of _this okay?_ attempt at communication. Phil feels a little less abandoned because of the check-in, and he supposed Bryony deserves to spend some time chatting with a girl that made her laugh. She doesn’t have to be chained to his hip even if it’s her fault that he’s not currently curled up in his own quiet flat, where the temperature is reasonable and the drinks don’t cost half a fortune. 

He nods to her. 

Someone steps into his view as he nods, someone who’s nodding as well. A tall someone. A handsome as hell someone. But he doesn’t look like he’s nodding at a friend in the way Phil had been; he’s just holding his drink and standing slouched though he’s nearly as tall as Phil is and bobbing his head in time to the music. 

He walks closer towards Phil’s booth, and shouts over the surrounding noise, “Mind if I join you?” There’s a crooked smile on his face that brings out two dimples, and Phil doesn’t think he’d ever have it in him to say no to a smile like that. 

“Sure,” he says, gesturing to the bench across from him. 

The man sits. “Good to see someone else appreciating a proper club jam,” he says. “Most of the music is shit, with generic production and a mantra of ‘What sells? Sex, drugs, and the same 130 beats per minute!’ But this Jamie xx knows his stuff.” He points up towards the speakers, the mesh covers of which are physically rising and falling with the music in a way that makes Phil think he doesn’t understand enough about physics and sound waves. 

“Huh?” he says, confused but a little embarrassed that he’s confused, and hoping the man will just think Phil didn’t hear him. 

“The artist? Jamie xx, this is one of his from a few years ago,” he says. They both listen for a few more beats. “It had top-notch production; he’s one of the trio The xx and their third album really saw the influence of his solo project. Fuller sound, more instrumentation, more sampling.” 

Phil nods along. The man keeps talking, even though Phil can barely hear him and also doesn’t fully follow what he’s saying because music production just isn’t exactly his thing. But he’s really enjoying listening to him anyway. 

“Did you know in 2010 the average BPM of a club jam was 130, the height of party glitter shit, and in the last seven years there’s been an 18% decrease! We’re averaging between 108 and 118 these last two years.” 

Phil smiles, takes the last sip of his drink and finds it’s mostly melted ice. “I did not know that,” he says. 

“Saw you sitting alone, drinking and nodding to the music,” the man says, “Guess I assumed you might have some industry interest.” 

“Not really,” Phil says, shrugging and smiling and not taking his gaze off the crinkled creases by the man’s eyes. “But I mean, if you keep talking about it, I might develop an interest.” 

The man laughs. He also takes a sip of his drink, and seems to be at the bottom. “Want another round?” he asks. “Or d’you wanna dance?” 

Phil hopes his blush will go unnoticed in the dim and coloured club lights. “If you really wanna get me to dance, it’ll definitely require another round,” he says. 

The man stands. “Then let’s grab another round,” he says. “What’ll you have?” 

While they walk towards the bar, Phil tries to steer them toward the other end away from Bryony; he’s having enough trouble on his own, trying not to make an ass of himself. He doesn’t need a friend’s help throwing that all out the window. They chat while waiting for the bartender to notice them. 

“I’m Dan Howell,” the man says, holding out his hand for Phil to shake. “I’m a music blogger, so please don’t hold anything pretentious I say against me. And it’s almost guaranteed I _will_ say something pretentious.” 

“Already have, I think,” Phil teases. He likes that this Dan Howell makes him feel like he can tease, because his smile only widens. “I’m Phil Lester,” he says. 

“And what do you do, Phil Lester?” 

“Nothing,” Phil says before he can think better about it. 

“Nothing at all?” Dan’s smile has softened, like he’s not sure if Phil is joking or not. 

Phil could laugh it off and tell Dan what he does— that he’s a post-production editor for the BBC, that he’s got a modest following based on his Letterboxd reviews of Stephen King film adaptations, that he makes it a point to go north and visit his parents every couple of months— that all of this is doing _something_. But maybe it’s the melancholy of the night, maybe it’s that lingering loneliness from earlier; none of it feels worth sharing. So he just shrugs. “Nothing interesting,” he says. 

Dan nods, picks up his drink, clinks the glass against Phil’s. They’re quiet for a minute, listening to the beat and the club and the matching heartbeat of everyone in the building pulse around them. 

“Could you talk more about music?” Phil asks. 

“I could talk your ear off,” Dan laughs. “You sure you wanna risk it?” 

“Yeah,” Phil says, “I liked listening. Who’s your favourite artist?” 

Dan groans and takes another swig of his drink. “That’s such a loaded question. If you’d asked me a few years ago I would’ve said Kanye in a heartbeat! But he’s, er, well… I’ve had to distance myself a bit. He’s always had some behavioural issues, but lately it’s enough that I can’t ignore it for the sake of the music.” 

“It sounds like a breakup,” Phil teases. 

“It _feels_ like a breakup,” Dan laughs. 

“What about the one who was playing when you sat down with me? You seemed to know a lot about him?” 

“Jamie xx? Yeah, I like him alright. Like what he does with production. Liked the story his album, _In Colour_ , told. That’s just a good fucking name for an album too, ain’t it? _In Colour_. But I dunno about favourite. It’s hard to choose favourites.” 

“That’s fair,” Phil nods. “I might be tempted to say Muse is my favourite, but I don’t know how much of that is like… nostalgia.”

Dan’s smile at Phil’s words is so wide Phil dreams for a second about diving into those dimples. “You’re something, you know that?” He tosses down what’s left of his drink in one big gulp. “Finish that up,” he says, pointing to Phil’s glass, “I’d like a dance, if you’re willing.” 

Phil mimics him, finishing the drink too quickly and feeling the zing of the alcohol racing through his veins, down to his fingertips. He’s willing. 

The song playing is a little slower than the one that had come before it; it’s still a fast club jam, but it makes Phil think about that statistic Dan had dropped earlier, that dance songs have been slowing. He wonders why that is. Why we’re not feeling the need to careen anymore, to pay a little more attention even when in a sweaty room surrounded by people no one can hear because of all the ambient noise. 

They’re both doing the generic shuffle side-to-side that guys do in a club, a little hip movement but not much, mostly shoulders and mostly arms. They seem to get brave at the exact same time to move closer and closer to each other.

Phil steps on Dan’s foot at one point, and he apologizes and Dan blushes and says it’s fine. Then Phil does it a second time, because that’s just his luck. Then a third… then a fourth. 

“God, I’m so sorry, I’m such a clumsy oaf,” he tries to step back and away from Dan.

Dan snakes his arms around Phil’s waist and pulls him closer, not letting him get so far away. “No,” he says, “No, don’t be sorry. I like it.” 

“You like it?” 

“I mean, I don’t mind it,” Dan laughs, “And I like dancing with you.” 

“I think you may have a bit of a pain kink, Dan Howell.” 

“Oh, I absolutely do, Phil Lester. But I was gonna wait until the third or fourth date to bring it up.” 

The boldness makes Phil blush. A third or fourth date is a lot for someone who doesn’t do things. And he’s so fucking into the idea. 

“My ears are ringing,” Phil says, leaning close to Dan so he can hear him but also getting a thrill for doing so. “Wanna step outside?” 

They feel the brisk night air on their sweaty faces and it’s good; it’s the best thing in the world. Phil feels alive, he feels aware. He feels like this is a moment he doesn’t want to let pass by without notice. 

“Tell me more about this pain kink,” he teases. Dan is leaning against the brick wall of the building. He holds a hand out for Phil who takes it, threading their fingers together. 

“One thing at a time, dork,” Dan says. “Kiss me first.” 

He doesn’t _do_ things, things don’t _happen_ to him. But Dan happened to walk past him earlier while he was nodding anyway. And Phil does lean forward to kiss him anyway. And if he lies down later because the sun has set only to wake in a few hours when it rises, there’s a certain amount of comfort in knowing this is still his life. 

It just might look a little different from here on out. It might have a little earned and earnest pain. It might be in colour.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading— come say hi on [tumblr](http://yikesola.tumblr.com/post/184828215024/loud-places) !


End file.
